A sacral crowd in white gowns is gathered in the grove
Contrasting to the sundown, The figures start to move
The ghost of earth is breathing in the rows of swaying wheat
The gratifying fire of winter needs to eat
Wattled heath and ivy to honor the unseen
Wickers in the image of the never-been
The beat of drums is pacing the chant of ancient names
The foe the crowd is facing has risen from the flames
The skeleton of autumn, inimical and mean
Heaps up above the Pyre of the Harvest Queen
With eyes fixed at the steeple embellished as a crow
The group of naked people is swaying to and fro
Their voices make a choir to the distant somber beat
The gratifying fire of winter needs to eat
